


Crossing Lines and Lists

by hooksandheroics



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, But also, F/M, Friends With Benefits AU, also injured!bellamy, and minor character death, but just them realizing their feelings towards each other, fuck buddies more like, not really friends, watch me tackle the steamiest trope in all the lands with angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 14:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3613128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hooksandheroics/pseuds/hooksandheroics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She didn't mean to open the lights, but then again, he didn't mean to fall in love with her either.</p>
<p>(Or that AU where Bellamy and Clarke are friends with benefits, then shit hits the fan and feelings are revealed.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossing Lines and Lists

She opens her door to a dim apartment, dropping her bag on the floor near the coatrack before skimming the wall for the light switch – she doesn’t get to it because a broad hand pins her wrist to the wall, the other one slamming the door shut.

She swallows a shriek when she is caged against wood with a very hard, very warm body, and immediately recognizes who it is. _Bellamy_.

It does not happen as often now, but ever since they landed a very tenuous agreement over this _arrangement_ that they have, he’s been sneaking into her apartment at very late, very strange hours. Bellamy’s a federal agent, that one she’s figured out about a week into this arrangement, and he, of all his goodness and honesty, cannot lie and tell her she’s wrong. But even if he did try, his face would give it away – which is such a bad trait for someone in his line of work. (Something tells her it may have something to do with _her_ , but she’s pushed that thought away because – rule number one: _no fucking feelings_.)

He presses her against the wall, his hips trapping hers and the hardness of his length pressing to where she aches the most making her shiver with barely restrained want. It’s amazing, she notes, how she had just come from the most hellish hospital shift ever and is so fucking tired but here he is, out of the blue, knowing just how to turn her on without words. (Something tells her it may have something to do with _him_ , but as stated, rule number fucking one.)

He leans closer, shushes her whimper, and latches his lips on her neck, kissing and biting at her skin. And fuck, his urgency makes her hot all over, she doesn’t even register the loss of feeling in her left hand, her eyes closing in surrender, and the way her other hand threads through his thick hair, grasping as hard as he bites. He moans into her skin, and she shivers, heat shooting down her groin. The grunt that comes right after is more of pain than lust – and she finds it odd.

He kisses up her neck until he reaches her ear, breath hot and ragged. “Are you tired, princess?” he nips at her earlobe, and it’s all she can do not to shut him up with another kiss. “We can always continue some other time,” he teases, his voice low and rough and fucking hot.

“No,” she replies, sounds too much like a squeak more than anything else, and her eyes fly open, meets his in the dark. She knows it’s too dark to see, but she makes out the mischievous glint in his eyes, knows that even if she did not speak, he’d figure out how much she wants ( _needs_ ) this by the way her body responds to his ministrations.

He keeps her gaze, but then his hand is slowly snaking down her jeans, flicking the top button open with practiced precision, and her eyes roll back into her skull. His fingers are skimming just shy of dipping down into her underwear, so she bucks her hips to let him know that he is being a goddamned tease.

His chuckle is dark against her skin, reverberates into her chest, making her heart jump at the cadence – and a bit of fondness, because fuck her, his laugh is so rare nowadays she longs to hear it more often than she’d like to admit.

“So eager, are we?” he laughs again, and okay, she’s had enough – she pushes at his chest, her strength catching him off guard and making him stumble back a bit. His grip around her wrist disappears, so she takes that opportunity to turn on the lights – only to stand aghast when she finds out the reason why he stopped her in the first place.

He’s standing a feet away from her, lips parted and eyes dark and wide, but those are not what caught her attention. There’s a dangerously long cut on his cheek, and a short but profusely bleeding one above his right eyebrow. He has a bruised cheekbone and a cut lower lip – and holy shit.

“Holy shit,” she gasps, voices her sentiment. “Bellamy, what the hell happened to you?”

His mouth twitches in irritation, but his gaze raises right into hers. “Work – it’s part of the job,” he replies, hard tone in his voice telling her something’s up that he’s not telling her. (But that’s against rule number two which is: small talk, no personal one.)

She walks towards him, and he drops his stare back to the floor. Her hand takes his and leads him to the couch without a word, because as much as it is not her place to meddle, her doctor-instincts are telling her that a laceration that long is going to be infected one way or another and she’s just really not into having sex with injured guys and all that. (It’s not concern. If it’s concern, then it’s breaking all the rules of the arrangement and they can _not_ have that.)

He follows her silently as well, and she’s grateful, because if there’s a more irritating Bellamy other than being his teasing self, well, it’s his stubborn self. However, the lack of fight also worries her because he’s not easy to coax into anything other than sex. But when he plops down on the sofa with a faraway look on his face, her heart plummets down to her stomach.

She busies herself with retrieving the first aid kit in her bathroom.

When she returns, he’s shucked his jacket off and she’s surprised to see that his white polo shirt is bloody as well. She immediately sits herself next to him, placing the kit between their thighs. He snaps out of his daze and trains a different look on her – making her gut clench in queasiness.

“Either you tell me what happened or let the silence eat you,” she murmurs as she preps the needle and thread and douses them and her hands with alcohol.

He huffs and faces ahead, either to make her stitching him up easier or to avoid her eyes. But he speaks nonetheless. Two words, and her heart seizes in her chest. “Atom’s dead.”

She knows Atom, has heard Bellamy talk about his partner on several occasions, knows that even when he thinks he’s an idiot, he holds such fondness to a loyal person who has never betrayed his trust. She doesn’t know what to say, for a doctor who’s seen the deaths of too many strangers. But then again, he must have seen the same amount, given the line of work he’s trudging upon.

She swallows the hard lump in her throat and continues her stitching. His mouth twitches in pain a couple of times but he never speaks until she finishes, until she’s turning his head to look at the cut above his eyebrow this time. It gets her closer to his face, and his eyes drop to her lips almost immediately.

She ignores the shudder that ran down her spine and instead focuses on the task at hand. “When I came over, I never intended for you to stitch me up,” he says, as if telling a secret.

“Then why didn’t you get yourself treated at the hospital?” she asks, busy with the bandage she’s trying to find under the gauzes. Her other hand is rummaging inside the kit, the other one is holding onto his cheek, just in case he decides to be stubborn again and turn away.

“I ran – I needed to… I needed to see you,” he admits, then her hand freezes as she raises her eyes to meet his. She did not expect the softness in his gaze, and it hit her like a fucking truck in the gut. This look, it always escapes her, but this look never disappeared from his eyes before, she just… she just never dwelled on it before because – rule number – oh fuck it. She’s afraid of what it _clearly_ says, but this time, sitting next to him making himself smaller with his shoulders hunched, his skin pale, his body haunted by tremors – she feels like her heart is about to burst.

“Bellamy,” she breathes, unsure what to say.

Unfortunately, he always had a way with his words.

“I’m tired,” he starts. “I don’t want to do this anymore, Clarke. But I still… I still want to. I still _need_ you. And that’s the biggest fucking problem here,” he takes a deep painful breath and his face crumbles. His hand comes up to grasp the one she has on his face and holds it there. “I am so fucking addicted – and I know you don’t want _this_ so I need us to stop because if we don’t… if we don’t, then I can’t stop – I can’t make myself stop. And I’m – I’m sorry.”

She presses her lips together, holds his gaze for another beat, and then continues to rummage into her kit. (She has to extricate her hand from his grip, and his hand drops down to grip his thigh. Her heart clenches.) If she’s going to do this, she’s going to do this _after_ everything else. After she knows and makes sure that he’s going to be okay. She finds the damned band aid and plasters it onto the cuts on his skin. She checks for more injuries, finds that his knuckles are bruised and bloodied but not broken so she just applies the antiseptic before putting everything back to where they were.

Then – then she looks up at him with fire in her eyes. He’s still waiting for her answer, that helpless look in his eyes making her reach out to him and drag him down to kiss him hard. Her lips bruise against his, teeth clacking, before they find their rhythm – the one that has always been theirs from the beginning. His hands come up to her cheeks, his touch gentle despite the urgency of their mouths.

And then she’s swinging her legs up and straddling him, and his arms are going around her waist to press her against him fully. He pulls away and immediately latches onto her neck as soon as she’s got her hands in his hair once again. This time, she grasps hard enough to pull him away from her skin – just holding him there in her embrace, her lips kissing his forehead with an affection she didn’t know she had… until now.

“You don’t have to,” she whispers against his skin, her fingers soothing and running through his curls. “Stop, I mean. You don’t have to stop. I’ll be… I’ll be okay with that.”

She feels the hitch in his breath against her skin, and then his arms are tightening around her like a vice. She doesn’t mind, couldn’t find it in herself to do so.

They stay like that for far longer, just in soaking in each other’s embrace. He keeps kissing her, feather light and soft, and she keeps combing his hair with her fingers.

They don’t have sex that night – a first.

Tonight’s crossing a lot of firsts, apparently. He stays over, holds her against him until the morning. She wipes his tears when he sheds them that night, and wraps him in her arms until dawn. And then they sleep.

Tonight changes everything, and she’s terrified. But she’s okay with it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Leave a kudos or a comment before you leave. Also, come yell at me on [tumblr](http://hooksandheroics.tumblr.com)!


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